


Orange Lilies

by achillean



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achillean/pseuds/achillean
Summary: "Zagreus wondered how long the wedding would be, what sort of woman he would marry. Beautiful, no doubt. The Gods had said it was a pity that Hades was to choose his bride." An alternate universe where Zagreus is a classical Greek hero and his divine spouse ends up Thanatos in an arranged marriage situation.
Relationships: Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 166
Kudos: 1889





	1. Chapter 1

Hades was not a man of many children. In fact, he had no children. Where his brothers had drank from women as one did wine (and had such a fill that the water of the womb began to run rivers of heroes), Hades had been notably absent in the affair. 

To hear, after what had seemed an eternity of childlessness and unpleasantness, that he had sired a son was news not dissimilar to the discovery that bone could crack and flower could bloom. It was, in a way, unnatural and strange, that those who were aware of Zagreus’ existence expected to see an oddity. Perhaps mismatched limbs set inside a monstrous frame, or an excess of eyes, teeth, tongues, scales, spikes— _ something _ to set him apart from what was good and humanoid. 

Hades never spoke of his son, and all knew better than to ask. The divination of the child’s mother was equally as impossible, for if one asked Hades, he grew irate. There were no birthday celebrations, no display of his first child, no ceremony, no sanctity, no virtue. When asked of Zagreus, whose name was not common fare at the time, he would simply answer that his son would return to him when he returned. It was scarcely known if he even visited the child.

When Zagreus had entered Chiron’s tutelage, Hades said nothing.

When Zagreus had slain a chimera, Hades said nothing.

When Zagreus had conquered threats by land and sea, Hades said nothing.

When Zagreus became the subject of Olympian murmurs, Hades still said nothing.

Other gods might have roared their pleasure at the strength of their offspring, praised their achievements for all to hear whilst filling themselves to the brim with nectar. To sire a hero, or at least a notable warrior, was pleasure enough. Not Hades, who hunched his shoulders over his desk with such concentration, one would have very well suspected he cared not a lick for Zagreus’ deeds. That, whether by hero or disgrace, Hades’ sentiments would not have changed.

Some said Hades had never seen the pregnancy of the woman who carried his child. Others posited that Hades had never wanted the child, yet the notion of Hades bedding a woman for enjoyment seemed out of the question. He was not a hedonist. He did not part the thighs of women for personal pleasure, and was too practical a man to not expect pregnancy in the gesture. It was impossible to know why Hades did not visit Zagreus. He was handsome, fair, strong, albeit curiously soft-spoken with wispy words that carried hardly above the incense which lined their temples. They called Zagreus _ flégomai  _ _ pódas _ —fire-footed—as if the chthonic flames from his heritage were always licking at his feet. They had said, in his fights, he moved too quickly to be seen, that his heels kicked sparks and flame with the sheer exertion of his power. Godly, in its inclinations surely, yet that was where the mystery of Zagreus grew greater:

If he were godly—truly godly—in all of its ways with fantastical power, then one could not help but ask: why did he bleed red?

Such was the mystery of Zagreus, and if one asked of his mother, he would always give a quiet smile and a shake of his head, asking how he could speak of a woman whom he had never met.

. . .

“There are nymphs,” stressed Thanatos, “ _ other  _ women. To give him a man… that is…”

The God of Death had been proposed to without being proposed to—offered to a man he had yet to meet.

“It is political,” explained his mother in all of her clarity and gentleness. Her gray hands folded neatly, one over the other, settled atop her knee. When he had been younger, he had rested his head upon that leg, but he was far too old for it now. “Zagreus has been raised without the Underworld. The marriage will… return him to it, in a manner of speaking.”

“But bloodlines,” Thanatos stressed, “ _ legacy— _ ”

“They say Prince Zagreus does not worry much in the way of children… like his father. Betrothal to a man would mean little to him. He would handle it with grace,” she stressed those last words—pinched them at their ends and lifted them for Thanatos’ eyes to see.  _ Follow his example _ , the gentlest lilts of her voice seemed to say, _ I do not wish to quarrel further _ . 

Thanatos disliked the taste which entered his mouth. Bitter. To command Death itself was to command something that ought to have gone beyond any one person’s hand. Yet she was his mother, and she could do as she pleased. The quiet with which she sat was not indicative of her power, and the stars which crowned her were not merely for show. Nyx was such a woman where she could sink her teeth into the very cores of planets. She could have her fill of stars and galaxies like wine and bread. A command of Death was not beyond her. 

The Night watched Death; it had come before Death, it would continue to exist without Death. 

Thanatos sat. A rare gesture. 

Black braziers which housed green flames sparked faintly in the onyx room. Their edges were singed purple, no doubt a product of his mother’s presence. Gods did not feel gods the way mortals did gods, yet the presence of another above one’s self did good to temper the spirit. Nyx exerted her pressure, and the room bent towards her, or away, depending on which effect she desired. She was greater than him, and his existence was by the grace of her womb, rendering the effect all the more potent. One could attempt to defy their maker, yet the hand which so carefully created with gentle fingers could easily curl them into a fatal caress. She would never hurt him, but it was the conceptual of the matter which bent his ear. That, and a love for the mother that adults will deny once a certain age is reached.

Thanatos’ hand rested atop the armrest of his seat, and he watched her carefully, “... he doesn’t care for children?” Bloodlines were important, for they were the only way of proving one had ever lived. Not even the gods were exempt from it. 

“He does not need them. He will be fine with a man.”

“Lord Hades…?” Thanatos continued, trepidation etching itself onto his features.

“It was by his recommendation. He considers you reliable, though he is not the sort to… speak so openly.”

If it was at the behest of Hades, then surely Thanatos would have been a fool to reject the summons. It was not that he had another he loved, and Nyx could reach such. The divine spouses which lined the beds of heroes and notable men tended to be women. Often dominated—challenged—forced onto their backs or earned in some manner or another. It was not that there was shame in the male lover, no, but it was the marriage that was unusual. It was further unusual that Zagreus was not opposed to the arrangement. Or, perhaps he simply did not know. 

“And Prince Zagreus is alright with this?” It was resignation in his voice. Acceptance. Thanatos would have never agreed in so many words. The situation was unprecedented, but everything about Zagreus’ life seemed strange.

“He is not aware entirely. He knows that the Underworld wishes to bestow him a spouse. Your gender has not been communicated to him, but it was not decided until recently. You were the best candidate… I cannot know Lord Hades’ thoughts on the child, but I believe… the union would please him, that you might be a force which can stand next to Zagreus.”

“What is he like?” Thanatos asked next, leaning back into his seat with further resignation. He could not disappoint Hades, and if he thought them suited, then perhaps they were suited and he would not complain further as to the matter. Zagreus would die, eventually, as all things did, and they could decide the finer points of their marriage after the fact. Thanatos quietly thought that a nymph would have suited Zagreus’ bedchambers better, but he knew little of Zagreus, and could not have possibly known the ghastly rumor amongst the prince’s servants that a beautiful woman could have been taken by him (as he could not rebuke beautiful women—a common weakness in many men), but that a plain man had better luck than a plain woman. 

“The surrounding villagers think he is kind. He helps them, though he has a tendency to pry. Gentle often, yet firm when he must be.”

_ The makings of a ruler _ , Thanatos thought, but the words died upon his tongue. To speak them felt forbidden. Had Hades considered an heir? Would Zagreus be his heir? Was the Underworld not a claim of a first son? Who could have possibly been his mother? “Gracious, then.”

Nyx nodded, “it was not my intention to put you in a difficult position, but I don’t believe he will make you unhappy.”

Thanatos wasn’t certain, though he trusted her judgment nonetheless. It was not in the interest of mothers to sabotage their own young, and she had loved him well in his youth, and still did now. Even if he could not entirely comprehend her reasoning, even if he did not know the depths to which Hades had made the request. To wed his employer’s son, perhaps it was an honor, yet he was a man. No, it wasn’t forbidden, only strange, and sometimes strange things were fine on their own, but too many things were strange about Zagreus. A strange union for a strange man with strange circumstances. It fit seamlessly in a cacophonous way.

“Very well,” said Thanatos, and he rose. “I will see him.”

Nyx’s lips pulled back into a gracious smile, “thank you. Please tell me what you think of him.”

Thanatos nodded, but he did not know she had seen Zagreus many times before, and did not know that this had been her intention from the start. 

. . .

Zagreus was to be betrothed. To whom? He had no idea. He did not think of it with his sandals on the beach and his legs in the water. His chief concern was relaxation. The politics of the Underworld and Olympus were beyond him, even if one place was from whence he hailed. Allegedly. He had never set foot there, and cared not to.

The sun beat down high overhead, and the gentle sea breeze combed its slender fingers through his hair.  _ This  _ was bliss. Heroism and fame did not interest him entirely, but the notion of helping others and the adrenaline that came with the slaying of monsters was something he found immense pleasure in. His concern, even above the waves which licked his legs and scrubbed salt into his skin, was his mother. A spouse would have complicated the hunt for her, if there was even a woman to be found.

The slaying of monsters had been coincidental in the hunt for her—tearing through deep foliage and testing the patience of the sea in order to find a trace of her. Monsters were encountered in exploration, and it seemed the severing of their heads meant something, and he had potential in the craft. It meant enough to study beneath Chiron, it meant enough to hold a spear, it meant enough for the crafting of armor. It meant enough for a life he had never quite envisioned for himself. It meant enough for Olympus’ favor. It meant enough for a divine spouse.

Zagreus stared into the horizon, with its fine blue sky and puff of white clouds which seemed to dance around the circumference of the sun. He knew he needed to return, that his betrothed would arrive at any moment. Nyx had said he would be able to feel them, as the presence of a god was much like her own—it was the changing of the atmosphere—currents turning, the breeze stilling—if the earth’s polarity could have shifted without consequence, perhaps it would have. Zagreus had always known Nyx by the quiet which surrounded her and the perfume of fine incense and roses. 

He could remember still younger days with his arms around her legs and his face pressed into her—a pitiful child trembling for comfort in a world in which he had no discernible father nor mother. He could still remember her cool palms smoothing his hair and whispering comfort, but she always left too quickly. Zagreus supposed it was his fate that most things in his life were to leave quickly. 

Zagreus wondered how long the wedding would be, what sort of woman he would marry. Beautiful, no doubt. The Gods had said it was a pity that Hades was to choose his bride.

He dipped his fingers into the brisk ocean, frowning at it thoughtfully. He could make out the sand beneath the waves, the careful scattering of seashells and wood from ships long departed. Hades had never given him anything other than a name. Zagreus, son of Hades. Nyx had told him once that he resembled his father, and Zagreus did not know if it was something he ought to have been proud of. It was unusual for a god to go so long without revealing themself to their children. 

The wind turned as he thought, and Zagreus could feel a rising anxiety swell in his chest. He stepped from the water and fastened his sandals back onto his feet, running across the sands and back to the palace. He would not have long before whomever chose to arrive did so, and the wind continued to turn, cold against his back as if urging him to run faster and faster. His feet thundered up the marble steps, sparking around him and barely not catching onto the plants which crowded around the delicate white of his home.

Up he continued until he was at a higher point, in the gardens, overlooking the very sea he had busied himself with studying. Zagreus was not panting. He was beyond it, the run had been nothing, but his heart thundered wildly. They hadn’t arrived yet. He felt an odd sort of terror he had never felt, as most things did not scare him. He leaned over the balcony to gather himself, to still the pace of his heart. His existence had been solitary save for the nursemaids and servants that had seen it fit to raise him, and the brief stints of erotic companionship he could steal from other servants when he had come of age. Love was not chosen, it was often promised. To marry for love was unusual, and Zagreus found himself bitter at the notion he would not have his say in the matter. Hades hadn’t done a damned thing for him most of his life, and the moment he decided to step into it, he had seen it fit to rob Zagreus of something the poets and playwrights thought the most valuable currency of all. 

The wind shuddered more violently than before, and the cypress trees above trembled violently, blocking the sun until the garden grew dark. Zagreus felt something like dread, as if faced with the weight of a matter undeniable and uncontestable. The air was colder despite the midday sun, and the gust grew silent. The weather itself had changed. 

Zagreus felt him before he had seen him. He was quiet like Nyx, yet more ominous. No birds dared to sing with this presence, unlike Nyx where the gentle nightingale still spun her song with the goddess in sight. He could hear his visitor’s breath, though faint, and knew him for the man he was. Zagreus smiled to himself, wondering if this was a sign of contempt from his father, before turning.

To describe Zagreus’ sentiments as to Thanatos, upon first blush, is a difficult task. Thanatos was handsome, though unsettling, like the serenity of a quiet, foggy wood one dared not enter, or the careful curvature of a blade whose meticulous craftsmanship one could admire, but did not desire to be struck with. His complexion was much like the aforementioned blade, gleaming with divinity in hematite strokes. There was a vague warmth to his skin, as if a proof of life, though he was not colorful by any means. His hair looked silver in the light, and Zagreus could not deny he was beautiful in a way that a spear was: finely carved and sharp. 

“... well met,” Zagreus said, unable to think of something cleverer to say. The other was imposing in a way few men could claim. “I take it you are…” he hesitated, wondering if his next words would displease him, “... my betrothed?”

Something flashed across Thanatos’ vision, something unreadable, before his gaze cleared, and he nodded. 

. . .

Zagreus had not faced him at first, but Thanatos could watch the hard line of Zagreus’ muscles tense as he felt the presence of something beyond him. Zagreus was small, hardly of the stature of most demi-gods. Heracles had been taller, broader, and Achilles had been taller, though leaner. They said Zagreus’ speed was close to Achilles’—no god had seen that in what had felt like an eternity. But was speed alone enough to make Zagreus great? Hades was by far more imposing than his child.

When Zagreus roused himself, and brought his muscles to relax, Thanatos could see the resemblance where he had wondered if there would be any. Zagreus was handsome, they had been correct in such, yet everything about him was strange in a way that Thanatos could not quite place. His hair was black like Hades’ yet seemed softer to the touch. One eye was a bright crimson, much like his father’s, yet the other was a green so gentle, Thanatos wondered what kind of woman his mother had been. 

Hades did not have the tenderness present in Zagreus—the softness and poise with which the prince carried himself. His patronage was Hades, surely, yet he lacked the lines which were etched into the corners of Hades’ mouth—lines from frowning. No, Thanatos noted, Zagreus indeed had lines set into his features, yet they were around his eyes. He laughed and smiled more than Hades did. Thanatos did not know what to make of the assessment. 

“... well met,” Zagreus said in a voice that was easy and soft. It was the voice of a man who had never needed to raise it—the voice of a man who had never learned to scream because he had never needed to in order to be heard. It did not reverberate as the voices of gods often did. It was sweeping, like a spring’s breeze. Thanatos could not tell if he was a god or only partly so. It was impossible to read Zagreus upon the first glance, because his eyes were gentle and his smile clever. This was the demeanor of a man who had learned to hear everything and say nothing. “I take it you are… my betrothed?”

It was impossible to not pick out the hesitation in Zagreus’ voice—the brief flash of uncertainty. A deaf man would have been able to hear it, but Thanatos could not fault him for it. Everything about their circumstances was unconventional. When the world could sense Death would be staying, it slowly began to resume its motion. The trees parted and the sun shone down upon Zagreus, lighting him in a brilliant crimson from the reflection of his robes and fastenings of armor. Yes, he was different from Hades, making the mystery of his mother all the more curious. If one cared not to learn of Zagreus, the sight of Hadean features would have been enough to bring legitimacy to his origins, but if one cared to learn more of him, the sight of him was even more bizarre. He looked like Hades, but moved like something gentler than a god. Thanatos did not doubt Zagreus’ prowess in battle, but there was a grace to his actions the Lord of the Underworld could not have claimed. Zagreus had been born with tenderness, and the propensity for softness existed in him as strongly as battle. Thanatos studied the outline of Zagreus’ muscles again. No, to remove the gentleness from Zagreus was to remove part of his soul, and to remove the battle from him was to remove something equally as vital. 

What a strange thing to come from a line of both Love and Loss, for that was the only way Zagreus could have come into existence. Thanatos thought of his mother’s intelligent eyes, and wondered how much she knew about Zagreus. 

God or mortal, it did not matter.

Thanatos could sense that Zagreus was beyond them all.

“Yes,” he said carefully, “I am.”

. . .

The servants jumped every time they saw Thanatos, and Zagreus could not blame them. He had grown quickly accustomed to the feeling of Thanatos’ air, but for the less initiated, and the death-fearing (which were most people with half a wit), Thanatos’ presence in the palace was unsettling, as was his preference for floating rather than walking. 

The banquet to celebrate his betrothed was equally as uncomfortable, and felt more like a funerary dinner than a cause for celebration. The food was divine, with a fresh heifer slaughtered, warm bread brought onto the tables, and a fine casket of wine opened for all present to enjoy. The chatter of the guests present was akin to a series of murmurs rather than raucous cheering. They were minor nobles of the area, all who bent their knees to Zagreus, whose weight in the politics of the island were greater than them all. Not that Zagreus ruled. Well, it was fairer to say he did, but relegated the task to others who would have known the affairs of the island better than he. Those whose families had lived there for centuries before and would after. Even for all of Zagreus’ established residence in his palace atop an exceptional cliff, it had always felt temporary to him—the silent knowledge that when he drew his last breath, he would return to House Hades and finally meet his fabled father, whose visage he only knew through vases and tapestries. 

“You don’t look impressed,” Zagreus said, “they butchered a lot of animals for this.” Neither disparaging nor commending, merely a fact of the celebration. Zagreus was learning that Thanatos did not like to speak much.

“... as is their custom,” Thanatos finally remarked.

The pair were not engaged very often by other attendees, which was to be expected. The truth was that they did not fully know the protocol of their marriage, as Thanatos was no lily-white maiden of rose-stained cheeks and carefully rouged lips. Thanatos was not a beauty who the poets would delight themselves in writing of, nor was he a beauty whose countenance could be worshiped in paint for generations to come. He was handsome, surely, yet all had their doubts as to whether or not someone of Zagreus’ inclinations would be suited to wed Death itself. 

“You should try some of what they have here,” Zagreus said, popping a piece of meat into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. It was tender, its savory taste spreading across his tongue and delighting his senses. Well, even if the dinner was a bit awkward, Zagreus didn’t mind. The food was good. 

“Gods don’t normally eat this,” Thanatos answered without reproach. It sounded cold, yet it was simply fact. Zagreus understood this of Thanatos as well: he accepted things as they came to him. 

“Hardly means you can’t eat it now,” Zagreus retorted. He plucked a piece of meat between his fingers, and offered it to Thanatos. The god hesitated, studying the food. It was not custom, but nothing was custom at the moment. Their looming union spat in the face of custom. Gods took male lovers, but not like this. It was impossible to tell if Hades had accepted it because he cared too much, or cared too little. 

Thanatos held Zagreus’ wrist steady, and grabbed the meat with his other hand, before placing it in his own mouth to chew considerately. Zagreus was startled by how mindful he was in the gesture, as if his was a mind that never stopped working. 

Zagreus leaned in expectantly, as if waiting for an assessment from the other. He thought the food was very good, but could not account for divine taste, and could not have known the weight of roasted meats against a tongue that had tasted ambrosia and nectar. He hardly minded the chill of Thanatos’ fingers around his wrist, nor how odd he must have looked crowding around Death so expectantly. 

“It is alright,” Thanatos finally replied, his fingers releasing Zagreus’ wrist. “I can see why you would enjoy it.” A concession. Compromise. Zagreus wondered if Thanatos was already thinking like a spouse, or if this was simply his way of being polite, or covering disinterest. For all he knew, it could have been all three. Zagreus watched Thanatos in a way that the other had earlier. It was a mutual fascination, at the very least. Nyx had felt near in her own way, yet somehow impossibly distant. The night could blanket you, but ultimately it was always beyond you. He had been swathed in the fabric of her dusk, but her presence was always fleeting. She could never stay, she could not have been expected to. But Thanatos somehow felt closer, more accessible in a way that she never had. Their purposes were inherently different, but Zagreus wished to unravel how Thanatos’ divinity was different from that of his mother’s. It was human nature to be fascinated by things beyond one’s self—and Zagreus scraped the edges of Olympus’ lining with the curiosity of his own existence.

“You could always have more, but I imagine it hardly compares to what you’re used to.” Zagreus reached for a honey cake, “I consider this stuff better, but I was told these things in moderation.” It was a test, as if to see Thanatos’ resolve to form an eventual union with a mortal. It was the pride of men to have their women, and if a man took a male lover, it was with the expectation he would retain a position of dominance. Zagreus silently wondered if he was the one expected to yield. The fact of the matter was, he did not care for the expectation and the hypothesizing that was sure to follow them into their bedchambers and into their sleep. The servants would watch for a limp, perhaps. Zagreus thought of how Thanatos preferred to float, and decided then that it would not matter if it were the case that the god would rest under him.

Zagreus chewed thoughtfully, brows knitting together in his concentration. He wanted to be respectful in their union, and decided then that he wanted Thanatos to know that if they needed to go slowly, then he was alright with that. Furthermore, if their marriage was one only for appearances, he would be alright with that as well. 

“... you become more obvious when you think,” Thanatos said at last. 

The words jarred Zagreus from his thoughts, and he gave a small, reflexive smile. Something courteous, something that moulded itself onto his features like second nature. “Do I?” Zagreus asked, finishing the last of the honey cake and swiping his tongue over his fingers. “I am looking forward to a good marriage, is all. Thinking of ways to make you happy.”

Thanatos grew still and silent at that, still as Death, a final act of quiet before the candles of a theatre might have been extinguished. “... I see.” It was all he could say, and Zagreus could not read if he was displeased or not. Thanatos’ features gave so little away as to his mood. 

The night wore on, and Zagreus could only dread his next battle with Thanatos: what was actually supposed to happen behind closed doors. 

. . .

Zagreus’ room was somewhere between a battleground, a library, and a landfill. That was to say, terribly disorganized, cluttered, and vaguely unpleasant. What was worse was that he did not let the servants clean it. What was even worse beyond that, was the fact it had not even occurred to him to clean it, and now Thanatos was in a position to gaze upon his disorganization. 

Thanatos, in all of his glory, said nothing, and Zagreus silently thanked him for it, quickly plucking books from the bed to hastily shove them onto a shelf across the room. If one cared, they could find a curious beauty in Zagreus’ quarters. It felt lived in, human—like Zagreus existed beyond the tales and rumors. It was one thing to hear of someone, and quite another to see and experience them. But Zagreus did not have the mind to justify his mess in such a romantic fashion, seized with a sort of sheepishness in straightening what he could. He could hear the sheets shift as Thanatos sat, and suddenly Zagreus’ ears grew hot from embarrassment. 

Was he supposed to bed him? He hadn’t prepared for this. Well, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have experience, and he knew the ways of men and how to part their legs and where to fit one’s hands and lips and fingers and whatever else might have brought pleasure. But it had been a while since he had taken someone, instead claimed by an odd sense of duty to help people. He was certain that in a drawer, he had what he needed to continue, but even that felt strangely mortifying. 

Zagreus turned, stiffly, and saw, for the first time in Thanatos’ face: worry. It relieved him to see it—told him he was not alone in his concerns. So he spoke, “we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” His voice sounded nobler than he felt. “We can take it slow. You said you were to return to your duties after this, correct?” He eased into the spot next to Thanatos, doing his best to give him a reassuring smile. “I won’t do anything.”

Thanatos’ shoulders eased themselves, and it occurred to Zagreus that neither of them knew what they were doing. 

“... what do you expect from this?”

Zagreus paused, shocked to have been asked it in so many words. The truth was that he did not know either. He did not dislike Thanatos, and thought him handsome, even, but he did not know where Thanatos stood with him. “I don’t mind men,” answered Zagreus carefully, “I’ve had my share, but I am not here to…  _ claim _ .” The need for dominance did not inhabit Zagreus. Not outside of the battlefield, that was. He was not like the men who had come before him—those like Heracles or Perseus who were domineering and knew the weight of their presence. If one were to ask Zagreus about this delicacy of his character, he would not know how to reply, as the empathy came to him as naturally as the wielding of a spear or the striking of his feet against the ground. 

Thanatos stilled himself on the word ‘claim’. Zagreus watched the muscles of his forearms flex and unflex with the curling of his fingers. He was squeezing his own palms, and his face still said nothing of his nerves. If Zagreus wished to read him, he realized, it would have to be by studying the rest of him. Men often hid their faces because they were most susceptible to being open, but the body could be equally as traitorous. 

He did not know what overcame him as he took one of Thanatos’ hands. He threaded their fingers together like fine fabric, and smiled wider. “We can decide how much we like each other. Why should we be unhappy? If you don’t like me, that’s alright, but it doesn’t hurt to try… does it?”

Thanatos’ gaze quickly snapped down to their hands, but he did not withdraw his own. Zagreus called that progress. He admired the weight of Thanatos’ hand in its own, and how its temperature was cooler than that of any mortal body he had ever known. He liked it, curiously enough. He liked Thanatos.

“We can try,” the god replied, as if he had been weighing it in his mind. “We can move slowly.” Finally did he reclaim his hand from Zagreus’, and the latter found that he missed the feeling. “This isn’t a place where I can stay long. I’m busy with other things.”

“I would assume so,” agreed Zagreus, still contemplating all of Thanatos for another shift in demeanor, but he was back in his defenses. 

He watched Thanatos rise, and felt sorry to see him leave. “When will I see you again?”

“When I’m next available.” Thanatos’ fingers caught at the hem of his hood, lifting it back over to obscure his features. He did not stay for much longer, giving Zagreus one sweeping look before disappearing.

The candlelight felt warmer with Thanatos gone, and yet Zagreus felt colder. His back hit the bed, and he studied the ceiling before throwing one arm over his eyes and groaning.

“Oh gods,” Zagreus said mournfully, “I might like him.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The first sign of trouble had been Thanatos’ presence. It was not that Zagreus disliked the sight of him, it was that Thanatos had not come for an amorous exchange. 

A ship had sunk at sea. A natural occurrence, for the most part. Ships sank, men died, Zagreus grieved in an abstract way, as all humans grieved when they learned of another’s passing. The first sunken ship, in short, had been unremarkable.

It was the second ship that had raised a question, and then the third. 

It became obvious to Zagreus that there was a pattern.

The fourth ship lost its men like its predecessors, and the neighboring states had sworn they would not cross the sea which bordered Zagreus’ own. Not until they could guarantee a safe voyage. 

The residents of their own island could sustain themselves for a time, but trade was vital, and they were starting to feel the longing for new fabrics, varied spices, and fine carvings. The minor nobles had come begging for Zagreus to investigate the matter, insisting that only the son of a god could have dealt with the oceanic curse that plagued them all. Zagreus had agreed to do something, but what that something was, he did not entirely know himself.

He sat with Nyx in the courtyard, back pressed against a column. Night had come early with her presence, the sun overhead having fled. The gods and people would not complain. The summer was blistering, and they felt fear from the unknown, oceanic threat—the cool touch of night was welcome in soothing them.

“I have heard word,” spoke Nyx, “that the threat is a naiad. A former naiad.”

Zagreus nodded while staring at windswept flowers who danced gracefully, as if they could not be bothered to consider the fear of those atop the island. Everything had its order, and the displacement of mortals would not stop the growing of grass or the rising of the sun. “Is that all? One woman alone?”

“Not entirely,” replied Nyx, “she has become monstrous. She scorned Poseidon, and this was her punishment.” Her voice grew softer, and Zagreus could feel the pain in her chest. Women were not meant to reject the whims of men, especially not their gods. For each woman taken and made monstrous, it was like a mirror unto the others. _This could be you,_ the gods seemed to say, _do not turn away from our requests_. Nyx was different, she had her say in her choices, but nymphs were not so fortunate—no, they had never been fortunate (screaming and thrashing, always a bride and never the arbiter of their own wants). To lose one’s mind from a simple no, it was unthinkable for the warrior and cruel reality for the woman. To kill her would be a mercy. She would not know the difference.

“I will go to her,” Zagreus said. It was a prettier way of saying _I will kill her_.

Nyx nodded in understanding, “the voyage should not be difficult, as she is mere miles from this place. You will still need to go by ship regardless.”

He could have predicted as much. Naval battle had never been his forte, and he scarcely had a plan for the confrontation, but Zagreus understood he would need to go despite his misgivings and inexperience. 

“Her name.”

“Pardon?”

Zagreus spoke louder, clarifying himself, “what was the naiad’s name before all of this?”

“Magea,” replied Nyx.

“I’ll have an urn made. Overlooking the sea.”

. . .

“When will you go?” Thanatos asked.

Their wedding had been postponed in the face of the crisis. Well, not entirely, they had postponed it without the crisis, but the situation made a good enough excuse to further halt their plans. 

“I don’t know. They’re preparing a ship, supplies. In case of the worst.” Zagreus replied while resting his arms on the balcony and feeling the night air against his forehead. “I’ve never been someone meant for the ocean. Fire-footed, they call me.” He laughed into the night, and the stars twinkled. Thanatos’ presence was comforting, even if he did not see him often, even if Thanatos was a man who was already wedded to his work. Zagreus wondered if there was even room between the two for himself.

“You will be careful,” Thanatos said, and Zagreus could not tell if it was question, request, or demand. 

“I will,” he replied. He reached his hand out for Thanatos to take. The god took it, and Zagreus knew better than to comment on it. Weeks had passed since their first meeting, and the most Zagreus could wrest from him was hand-holding. Thanatos was surprisingly shy, but they were making progress. The marriage might have worked yet. Zagreus hoped it would. 

“When do you set sail?”

“I don’t know. When everything is ready. I don’t know much about ships—they’re letting another man at the helm. I’m only there to slay Magea.”

“Magea?”  
“It was her name—it’s only fit to call a woman her name.” Zagreus watched the sway of the cypress trees and listened to the careful calls of birds and bugs alike. The air was peaceful despite the task which loomed before him. “They say,” he continued, “only the son of a god can handle this task.”

“It is what is expected,” Thanatos agreed, letting Zagreus’ hand go. He never held it for long. He was cursed with remembering himself constantly, and Zagreus could not help but wish he did not. Their touches were always so fleeting. It had not taken him long to learn that Thanatos indeed liked men, but he siphoned no freedom for himself—did not know how to take the space between he and Zagreus and close it. 

“Part of it feels like a test,” admitted Zagreus, “I feel watched—as if they’re asking what the son of Hades can do.”

“You are the first of your kind.”

“Very reassuring.”

“I did not mean—”

Zagreus laughed, his shoulders gently rolling with the motion, “I know what you meant, Than, don’t worry.”

“‘Than’?”

“A nickname,” Zagreus explained, taking the opportunity to inch closer, “‘Thanatos’ is long. ‘Than’ fits just right. Should I stop?”

Thanatos’ cheeks burned in a manner that Zagreus could not detect, but that was no less present. “... do as you will. I’ve never been called that before.”

“You can call me ‘Zag’,” and he pointed to himself. “It’s best to get familiar, isn’t it?”

. . .

Ships were not so quickly prepared. There were time considerations, as well finding those who were willing to travel and fight if the worst came to pass. The island Zagreus lived on was one of relative peace and quiet. Their warriors were not notable, and if a supernatural threat came lumbering from the brush, then the people died and that was that. But it never came to that. Not usually, as the beasts which might have been native preferred to stow themselves away to the deepest parts of the undergrowth, and it had only been by Zagreus’ exploration they had been slain at all. That was to say, the existence of the island was calm, and it had never known strife. Their life was one where their bellies were always full and the gentle caress of the water which bordered their lands offered no more danger than tucking one’s self into bed. They were spoiled, really, and hesitant. Even if a son of Hades were to accompany their voyage, Hades wasn’t known for heroic offspring. Perhaps if a son of Zeus had joined them, they would have remained more at ease—but no one knew much of Zagreus, not even those who had watched him grow older.

A quiet life had not prepared them for monsters, and everything about their lives and land had been unremarkable, but pleasant. 

Thanatos began to understand that was why it had been selected for Zagreus’ birthplace. The island was not important to the Olympian, nor the Chthonic gods, and no great warriors had ever touched their sandals onto its shores. Blue seas were the same everywhere and the place was so curiously tucked away that travel there other than for trading was relatively useless. There were nobler places to raid and war against, if it was so desired. The island was safe, and few places were so safe. Thanatos could not imagine Hades choosing such a location for his son, so it must have been Zagreus’ mother—whoever she was. The fact Zagreus had been raised in obscurity was a mercy few heroes were granted. It had been the greatest kindness motherhood could give, and Thanatos wondered if Hades even knew it, or cared to value it. She had taken care of their son in ways that transcended physical presence. Maybe Hades had never spoken of Zagreus _because_ of her wishes. 

This was how Thanatos spent some days—theorizing about Zagreus’ origins, and wondered how someone of his caliber could come from an island so mundane that most travelers did not even know the name of and could only guess at its location.

Zagreus seemed to like the island, despite how unremarkable it was. He had been the only interesting thing to come of it, and the reason why the gods’ heads turned towards its shores. Thanatos wondered if it would invite war, if Zagreus even had it in him to fight in proper battle. The man was composed of equal parts martial desire and human empathy. He robed himself in his kindness while brandishing a blade. Zagreus looked alive when he trained, yes, but he looked equally as alive while playing a lyre whose musicality he could never begin to unravel. He was terrible at music, and Thanatos had entertained the thought of cutting the lyre’s strings to prevent another cacophonous concerto, but Zagreus looked happy in those moments. Zagreus looked happy often.

It was enough to make Thanatos wonder what death could offer to a man so full of life.

The day was hot, as most days were on the island, yet the sea breeze was refreshing enough to make it bearable. The ship Zagreus was supposed to mount had not yet been prepared, as men needed to be trained and readied for naval combat, even if Zagreus was expected to carry out Magea’s execution. So, Zagreus had suggested a demonstration of his own powers. He was always trying to find ways to entertain Thanatos, whether it be showing him the trees he could scale, the food he liked, his favorite spots along the beach, or even his favorite dogs. And, like a fool, he had accepted another invitation from the prince. 

Thanatos thought of his work and all he would need to atone for in spending time with Zagreus, but he found he was not as troubled as he could have been. They were warming to one another in a way he had not thought possible, to where Thanatos was oddly content sitting atop a rock in a clearing, watching the other prepare himself for whatever it was he wished to show him.

Zagreus was stretching on flat ground, occupied by his own thoughts. The sun made him a blaze beneath it, and all treasures paled in comparison to him. To speak it aloud would have been blasphemy—enough to enrage Aphrodite herself—but Thanatos thought that Zagreus must have been the most beautiful mortal, from the slope of his muscles to the curve of his mischievous smile. He was captivating in a way that Thanatos could not put words to, could not have hoped to comprehend in the depths of his own soul. He had never been interested in another like this before, and began to wonder if he would ever be again. 

And yet, his face betrayed nothing, merely studying the way Zagreus lunged forward to pull his calves taught in a preparation to sprint. 

“I haven’t been able to run lately,” lamented Zagreus, now lunging with his other leg. “They have me in meetings, discussing logistics and what I might face.” He stood up straight, stretching his arms towards the sky and cocking his hip to the side. He looked unbearably stupid, but mortals needed to do this to avoid injury, so Thanatos had learned. The gods did not require such foolish rituals, but Thanatos liked the sight of Zagreus’ preparing himself regardless.

“That is to be expected,” remarked Thanatos with little sympathy. His entire life had felt like one long meeting or another to discuss the logistics of souls and burials. He could not bring himself to be empathetic to Zagreus’ plight, for his own work was mired in bureaucracy. “Your input will be needed to decide the course of the voyage.”

“I never learned navigation besides the basics of it. North, east, south, and west.” Zagreus pointed in each direction, much like a child demonstrating something new they had learned. Thanatos liked watching this too.

“I’m sure they’ll have someone to do it for you.”

“I met the captain, sure. The ship was pretty run-down last I saw it. They’re having to make repairs and everything is taking longer.” Zagreus stood completely straight and lifted one foot to pat the soft, brown soil beneath, as if testing it. He was barefoot, and nothing about his legs seemed especially remarkable other than well-sculpted muscle. Thanatos wondered if fire-footed had simply been a turn of phrase.

“Have they said how long you will be at sea?”

“They don’t know, but it isn’t far, so most likely not so long. The wind around here is good—we have luck yet for a fast voyage. That is, if the gods are kind.”

 _The gods are never kind_ , Thanatos wished to say, but he did not.

“I’ll be running now,” Zagreus announced, chest puffing up proudly before he properly bowed himself into position. Thanatos wasn’t certain what to expect, but the sight was beyond what he could have imagined.

Zagreus was fast, but many Greeks had been fast—Achilles had been fastest of all (swift-footed and hitting the ground like air)—but Zagreus’ speed was different. It was raw, not entirely trained, a fleetness of foot by a body that had not yet learned war. It turned and twisted like the snapping of a flame in a brazier ill-forged to contain it. When Zagreus had nearly collided with a cypress, there was no danger in it. His body lowered and curved before it could come to pass in a display of preternatural athleticism. His foot slid against the ground in a smooth arc; he used it to kick himself away at a greater speed than before, the dust behind him rising from where he had been like an earthly phantom.

Zagreus did this three times. His heels sparked, at first, before it became fire licking at his feet and then the swell of his fine calves until the color of his feet became molten. Zagreus turned sharply again, and the blaze spread behind him until it coalesced into a scorching shadow like a fiery halo.

He was brighter than the sun, finer than anything Hesphaetus could have forged. Zagreus existed beyond any divine or mortal definition. He was brilliant, shining—a fiery jewel set atop the crown of mortality. When he stopped before Thanatos, the god was at a loss for words. Zagreus grinned like fire, awaiting praise, as if he knew the value of his own skill. He glowed with his own excellence, and Thanatos felt as though he’d already been consumed by the blaze. 

Whether or not Zagreus was godly, truly godly, or truly mortal—it no longer mattered. Zagreus would always be Zagreus, first and foremost. To define him was like trying to divine the exact nature of why forests grew from ashes. Thanatos had never felt the urge to worship and cherish before, and was struck by the strangeness of it as it came to him then. 

The prince’s breathing was not elevated, as if the run had meant nothing to him. Thanatos studied the flush of Zagreus’ cheeks. Red. Undeniably red. The sort of red which begat mortal blood. Zagreus felt holier than a mortal, holier than a demi-god, yet somehow still human. Was his composition like that of Dionysus’? Thanatos studied his smaller stature, his softer eyes, the grace with which he moved yet the power of his feet against the earth.

Maybe Zagreus could not be defined because nothing like him had ever struck the ground before.

“What did you think?” the enigma in question asked, snapping Thanatos from his thoughts.

“You’re fast,” he replied carefully, “I’ll give you that much. I see why they call you _flégomai_ _pódas._ ”

Zagreus glowed brighter at that, flushing with pleasure at the praise, as if it were new to him despite his confidence. Hades did not value his offspring as he should have. His son could have sat amongst the very best of the Greeks, this Thanatos was certain of. 

“It’ll do me little good at sea,” Zagreus laughed about it and stared down at his own feet, whose igneous hues began to fade. The soil sizzled around him, and Thanatos was relieved that the other had retained enough forethought to not run on the grass.

“It would hurt if it caught on the monster,” Thanatos said. Subliminal reassurance, as if trying to tell the other his gifts were not a waste.

“You think so?” Zagreus asked, as if considering it. “I wonder how good it’ll do if she’s already wet, but I suppose I can try.”

Thanatos hummed his reply, for he knew not what else to say. Conversation had not been a gift of his. Many would have described the task of moving a mountain more enlightening than trying to speak to Thanatos. 

Silence soon fell between them and Zagreus’ brows knitted together in thought. He leaned in close from where Thanatos sat, and trapped him there by keeping his arms on either side of him. 

The God of Death flushed for the first time in his eternity.

“You’ll wait?” Zagreus asked, his eyes more serious than before.

“Wait?” Thanatos asked dryly, “if you lose your life there, it’ll only return you to Hades faster.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You won’t be gone for long, Zag,” it dripped with familiarity despite its tone. Time together had loosened the formality from Thanatos’ tongue. “It’s not a campaign.”

Zagreus reared back in annoyance, his arms folding across his chest in the motion. Thanatos could not understand his irritation. Merely a moment ago, Zagreus had been so radiant and proud. “I don’t want to die young,” he said, “there are a lot of things I haven’t seen and found. Besides… the circumstances might change if I die.”

“Change?”

“You might dissolve things, perhaps,” Zagreus was speaking quickly now, “or change your mind. I want to be back soon and alive, so you don’t. I want you to wait.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Zagreus.”

Zagreus only looked more annoyed, as if unable to understand why _Thanatos_ did not understand. “I’m not—I’m being serious, Than. You can at least promise to wait—is it so difficult to say?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Thanatos sighed, “wait—wait for _what?_ You’re acting as if this is perilous—”

“Some people are nervous,” Zagreus said rather seriously, “I’ve heard families saying their good-byes.”

“You’re not like them.”

Thanatos could not understand why Zagreus’ gaze grew troubled, nor why he flinched as if he had been struck. The god could not have known his words had been a blow to the soul, for we cannot know another the way we know ourselves.

“... is it really so hard, Than?”

“I don’t understand why you need it.” _You’re being over-dramatic._

Zagreus departed shortly after, citing another conference to discuss his ever-looming voyage. Thanatos knew it for the lie it was—Zagreus wasn’t good at lying. He hadn’t been built for it. Still, Thanatos did not stop him, and watched his figure retreat over the hill until he was swallowed by the sky above.

He did not understand Zagreus’ ire at first, as the argument had seemed so ridiculous, it hardly merited further consideration. It was only in the quiet of his work that Thanatos had realized it was often the duty of spouses to wait for their beloved’s return in times of conflict. 

Zagreus had been watching young crewmen and their lovers for inspiration, and Thanatos had dismissed him. 

. . .

The ship looked more than passable. Or, Zagreus liked to think so. His conceptualization of ships was whatever literature and diagrams had provided him in his upbringing. Its sails were simple by way of a community that had never cared much for travel beyond trade. To prepare something of a war vessel was short enough notice, and the construction of a new one was impossible. It was not an impressive ship by a warrior’s standards, yet it was beautiful in its own, uncomplicated and earnest way despite the desperate efforts of its crew to make her look like more than what she was.

Thanatos had not visited Zagreus, and Zagreus was uncertain if he wished to see him at all. He knew, deep down, that he had made a bit of a scene in growing so annoyed, but he felt a weariness in having to be the reason for their romantic development. Could Thanatos not have roused effort to woo him, or was he truly so unhappy by the prospect of their union? It was a haunting thought, and the reason he had found it difficult to sleep for several nights. All of which they had not seen one another. All of which only furthered his fears that the depths of their sentiments were not equal.

There is a mortifying terror in love when uncertain—a pain so exquisite that it cannibalizes the mind and heart until it is weak and sick. Zagreus had never learned to prepare for the feeling, and did not know if it was worth the grief which nested in his chest. It was an arranged marriage after all, perhaps it had been far too idealistic of him to wish for love in it. He had felt that he had made progress with Thanatos, yet reading him was difficult, and it was impossible to know just how many of their interactions were the god humoring him to avoid punishment by his superior. The thought alone was enough to nauseate Zagreus further. 

A hand clasped onto his shoulder—weathered and gnarled. It belonged to their impromptu captain, an old man named Karpos. And, despite the little island’s inexperience in many matters, the people saw it fit to say that Karpos was a man of few peers by way of naval travel. Zagreus would see it for himself.

“Are you ready to depart soon? The wind is good, and the men are anxious. The sooner the beast is slain, the sooner they will return to peace.” Karpos was wise enough, and easy to talk to. Zagreus had not minded planning the trip at his side. If anything, he respected the old man in a way few earned from him. 

“Yes, of course,” Zagreus murmured distractedly, his gaze cast upon the looming ship. It would not be a long voyage, perhaps only a handful of days, but it was not the length of the journey which daunted the crew, but rather the prospect of death. Even the men who had volunteered had required some form of payment in advance. Gold for women who might become widows—time to write letters to family, to decide inheritances, and to tell first sons of what might come if their father died at sea. Zagreus would not let them die, but the wills of the mortal are not the wills of the world. Men simply live on earth, they do not rule it as the gods do. 

Still, Zagreus would hate to lose a single life, even if it came at the cost of his own.

The ship was fun. Fun might have been an odd word, but the crew were a joy to drink with. Zagreus learned the names of their wives, their children, their salacious stories, and their heartfelt ones. He learned their hopes, their fears, whether they had ever left the island, the history of their families. Zagreus learned to tell them apart from just the sight of their backs or the sound of their gait. He had never mingled with the common folk at length before—confined to lessons behind great wooden doors with smooth marble underfoot. 

The journey was almost enough to take his mind off of Thanatos. Almost. Sometimes Zagreus would drape his torso over the side of the ship, staring out into the horizon for a monochrome figure to grace his sight. Sometimes Zagreus would lay awake, the ship lulling him to sleep with its gentle sway over the waves, wondering if Thanatos would even see him.

Thanatos never came, and Zagreus learned to stop hoping. 

They arrived in the beast’s waters after three days of travel with the sun inching closer towards the tides. The men felt her before they saw her. They were not yet at her preferred spot, but she would come—it was expected. Monsters were not entities whose appetites were so easily sated. They were always hungry, as if it were a curse—gnashing teeth and roaring stomachs pushing them to devour whatever they could have of humanity. Men called it the finest horror, but the women, in their tenderness and mercy, could understand the desire to devour, to thrash about and feel so deep a rage that it ought to make the warriors aboard their ships quake. 

It was quite a womanly fate to be threatening to a man, and killed accordingly. 

All aboard the ship were nervous, some of them rowing with unsteady hands, as if they did not wish to bring themselves closer to where she lay.

Zagreus could sense her presence better than the other men. He felt the tug of her in the pit of his stomach. It was an unusual being registering another unusual being.

It was god’s blood, humming in his veins, the primal desire to be great—to be something worthy of another’s gaze. His blood sang louder and louder the further they rowed into her waters. He stood at the front of the ship, feeling the tides becoming more tempestuous. They began to slam themselves against the side of the ship, testing her balance. She was a faithful thing, remaining steady despite the brutality of her circumstances

It began to mist while a thick fog rolled onto the horizon. She was exerting her pressure much as gods did, letting the crew know the weight of her power. This was her domain, her sea, her home—and _they_ were the ones who had defiled the sanctity of it.

Zagreus drew his cloak closer to himself, staring out into the water. The sun, which had been so present, though departing, seemed a distant reverie belonging to a more peaceful voyage. The tides reared upright, beating themselves against the ship tirelessly. It was impossible to perceive any marine life in their blackened depths. They rolled and spilled like thick ink, broken in composition only by the gray foam of their armor.

The darkness of the water shielded her form. She would be seen when she wanted to be seen. She would be heard when she wanted to be heard. Every man, even Zagreus, was at her mercy. But Zagreus’ eyes were fine, and beyond that of the other crew members’. Whatever degree of god he was, it was enough to sense the changing of winds, the weight of an atmosphere, and the hums of changing tides. He would know her before them, and that was his gift.

Lightning struck the sea hundreds of feet before the ship. “She is there,” Zagreus said with certainty, “Lord Uncle Zeus is helping us. He’s marked her.” 

“Lord Zeus would help us?” a man asked in disbelief, staring at the sky with a quiet wonder.

“Well, he certainly hasn’t struck this boat,” replied Zagreus. He loosened his cloak until it fell from his shoulders, and he passed it to the nearest crew member. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his own blade, and he approached the front of the ship as far as it would let him.

Movement surged suddenly, and the ship spun, the men desperately trying to keep it steady. 

Magea rose, and Zagreus felt nauseated.

She was a foul thing to look at—serpentine with brine around her throat like rotting pearls. She had been beautiful once, he remembered Nyx telling him, and perhaps this was her trying to salvage some of her pride in her decaying mind. Magea smelled like all things dying, her gaping maw no more welcoming than the rest of her. Between her teeth were the bones of other men she had consumed, bones she could not have been bothered to clean. She smelled of rotting flesh and salt—of violated divinity and anger. 

Two of her limbs spread, arching back before slamming the sea forward against their ship, and the tide was large enough to overcome it, the poor vessel nearly collapsing onto its side with salt water gushing over her decks. Zagreus was nearly thrown back entirely, desperately grabbing at the slick wood for purchase. Magea dived beneath the waves, and Zagreus felt a sharp panic. She was larger than he had expected, and far more imposing. She must have been the height of his palace atop the hill—or at least only marginally smaller than it.

He looked around the ship, and was met with the frightened, pallid faces of the crew. Some had retched themselves, vomit staining their tunics, and others sobbed in desperate prayer. These were not seamen by trade, Zagreus needed to remind himself, nor warriors. They looked to him with a frightened reverence. He was supposed to save them. He was their only hope. Mortals were ultimately fragile, and the greatness of fighters did not occupy every soul. They needed Zagreus in the way that all mortals needed their gods, except Zagreus did not know if he was truly their savior, or merely a fool about to swallow salt water like poison. 

Magea knocked herself into the ship, rocking it more. It seemed she liked to play with her food and was taunting them. The screams of the crew satisfied her, and Zagreus could not help but sigh in exasperation. The fear which wafted from the men was thick and surely intoxicating for a beast of her caliber, but he did not have the heart to tell them to stop being so frightened. That was not how men worked. 

Zagreus quickly stood, and removed his sandals entirely. The purchase on the deck felt more secure than anything his sandals could have offered him. He shut his eyes, warming his feet, and the water around him began to steam and evaporate. His feet would do no good with excessive water, but for the moment, it was enough to do away with the remnants of the first wave.

“Focus on keeping the ship afloat,” Zagreus called loudly to the crew. “I will handle her here. It is not my intention to make this place a battleground, as I wish to return you all whole—but you _must_ prepare yourselves for the possibility of endurance. I can only do so much.”

Zagreus rushed towards the front of the ship, sword brandished in hand. He had never used his powers like this before, and scarcely knew if they would be effective. Still, if he did not slay her now, then none of them would be returning home. 

The mist became a rain, whipping around them with aggressive winds. Magea emerged from the sea once more, fixated on Zagreus and his glowing sword. It had been a gift from Nyx—a relic of the Underworld itself. He had trained with it and killed with it—but not against a beast of her stature. Zagreus prayed to any god who might listen for assistance, and hurled his sword at Magea. It struck true and lodged itself into one of her eyes. The crew cheered loudly but fearfully, uncertain if this was a good omen, or merely delaying the inevitable. Only the Fates knew, and Nyx had always been reticent in revealing the machinations of her daughters. 

Magea shrieked a horrid sound which was reminiscent of glass against rock, of trembling waves devouring a ship—the call of sirens before they feasted—it was anguished yet predatory, and it made every hair on Zagreus’ body stand at attention. Her cry echoed over the ocean, and the rumble of the tides grew louder, as if sharing her grief. Of course it was. She had been a naiad. This was her slice of sea and they had come into a house to slaughter its mistress. All natural things, both earned and built, would surely mourn a murder. 

Zagreus raised his hand, and the blade flew back into his grasp. If he could keep her at bay like this, it would be enough. Blood rushed forth from the eye he had punctured, and she whipped her head around violently. Her blood spattered onto the sails in thick rivulets, her cries of pain growing louder. Before Zagreus could entirely understand, she lunged for him, mouth wide. He side-stepped her advance, turning his wrist to drag his blade along the side of her face. She reared back, angrier than before, screeching so loudly that the dark clouds began to tremble. Her long tail lashed madly in the water, rocking the ship violently. Some of the men prayed. It was all they could do, and their oars groaned trying to keep the ship from capsizing. 

Zagreus rushed forward towards the edge of the ship until he could balance on the bow. The trembling waves made it difficult, but he could not risk Magea coming for the men. If anyone were to die, it would be him. All he had waiting for him was a palace filled with no family and a man who would have surely loved to terminate their engagement. Zagreus laughed bitterly into the whipping winds, realizing that he had not even that. He had not seen Thanatos in days. Perhaps the god had forgotten about him, perhaps the god did not even care if this damned beast devoured him whole. But the crew did, and it was enough to make him fight.

Magea lunged again, her mouth closing over Zagreus. He was grateful the wood of the ship was thick enough to withstand the bite, even if he could hear it crack beneath the pressure. It was dark and strange in her mouth, and her tongue tried to wrap around his waist. He lifted his blade, and severed it. He would have minded the scent of rot more had the savage desire to live not have overridden all of his senses. She moved back and howled, one of her great flippers sweeping over the front of the ship and finally knocking its bow loose. 

This was when Zagreus should have died, should have been knocked into the sea where he would drown, where he would have failed his father and his people. But he did not. His blade had dug itself into her flipper, and he desperately held onto the hilt as if his life depended on it, because it did, because there was nothing separating Zagreus from the sea other than the merciful air. 

She studied her flipper, confused by the sight. Zagreus desperately grasped at it with his other hand, gripping tightly before withdrawing his blade to throw it into the side of her neck. He did not have a lot of time, and had to balance himself perfectly as he darted upright. Fire-footed they called him, and he summoned all of the speed he had in him to race across her moving flipper, to hurl himself desperately towards his sword, hands nearly slipping from its hilt and threatening to plummet him to the sea below. Zagreus did not look down, he _could not_ look down, as he knew that if he did so, he would vomit. 

Magea shook herself wildly, trying to dislodge the unwelcome visitor. Zagreus held on tightly, and carefully tried to stand on her shoulder. His feet slid against her wet frame, and he wasn’t certain if he screamed. Her only remaining eye flickered to study him on her shoulder, and he gave what must have been a weary smile. She stilled for a second, baffled by the sight of him and his demeanor, and he took the opportunity to stab her other eye, grip firm on the hilt of his blade. She flailed wildly, and his grip became more and more uncertain from the surge of her blood and the pounding rain which reverberated throughout his ears and against his skull. Zagreus moved a hand to grip at one of the jutting spines of her face, drawing the sword from her eye. She had lost both her eyes, and her tongue, her senses were dulled, and the battering of the wind and rain would make the sound of him all the more difficult.

Zagreus scaled her head with the assistance of his blade and her spines, until he stood atop her. His position was precarious on her head, one hand fumbling for another spine to grab before he plunged his sword into her with a burst of divine force. The crimson energy of his power bore a hole into her, and she sobbed. Half-woman, half-monster. Half-gratitude, half-rage. Her head furiously turned, and his sword was loosened from her. She would not live long with the wound, even for her divine inclinations. Zagreus also wondered if he would live as he was hurled into the air from the force of her turn. Though she saw nothing, her clawed flipper swung to slice his back. The pain was nearly unbearable, enough to make his body tremble and his vision flash with strikes of white. His blood poured from him and framed his fall like macabre rain—he had been wounded badly, and he could feel the warmth of his blood press against his back. It turned his stomach into knots. Were the sons of gods supposed to be wounded like this? Had he truly and thoroughly embarrassed himself?

Still, Zagreus needed to protect the men, before her actions wrought their injury, before she delved into such violent madness that the ship was torn asunder. Zagreus, with wavering clarity, hurled his sword at her throat with all of the power he could muster. The entirety of his blade was engulfed in such a flame that not even the rain could extinguish it, and it passed through her neck, leaving in its wake a molten explosion which launched into the air chunks of her charred flesh. She had been decapitated, and no divine grace would save her from her death. Magea’s body plunged into the water, the force of it pitching their ship and the men aboard it.

Even if they were saved and she defeated, it did not stop Zagreus’ own descent into the water—the waves a sharp, icy slap against his already wounded back. He could not bring himself to swim—he did not have the clarity to contemplate fighting against the waves. They swallowed him entirely and greedily drank the blood from his back. They were ready to welcome his corpse into their depths, and Zagreus had forgotten the language of rebellion.

For a second, against the sky, he thought he saw the outline of Thanatos. He could not bring himself to lift his hand from the waves to grasp at him, and surely thought Thanatos’ figure the product of mournful hallucination. A last dream before death.

The ocean foamed red around him, and the world grew dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one:  
> Not a single soul:  
> Me: yeah hey if what I just had Zag fight a sea monster for three pages?  
> I hope to god this chapter was entertaining. I love writing romance but I also love having a plot so.... anyways the next chapter will be......... porn..... to atone for my crimes of making you all read vaguely slow burn pining and miscommunication. That is, if Zagreus is even alive for the next chapter :3c  
> Per usual, no betas we die like men and I hope this chapter is actually a fun action read and not Miserable.


	3. Chapter 3

Zagreus awoke fractured, as if every part of him had been severed and scattered throughout the room. His limbs came first, as a man could not fight without command of his limbs. Second instinct was to reach for a blade, and he started when he felt resistance—the tangling of sheets around his ankles. He was not himself, as half-drowned men were rarely themselves in consciousness. His shoulders tensed and rolled, expecting to fight waves, but there was nothing.

He was aboard the ship, and it creaked in its route. The mind was the second thing to return to him. Instinct and limbs kept one alive, but it was the mind’s job to rationalize the kill, to lift the head of the departed and decide whether or not it was slaughter or honor (most existed somewhere in between).

His mouth felt dry and his head dizzied. Zagreus attempted to sit upright, wincing at the feeling of bandages constricting his chest, and wounds that had not yet learned the careful stitching of scarring. He would have growled his annoyance, perhaps, if he had not heard voices outside of the cabin.

“... I beg your forgiveness, my lord,” it was the voice of the old captain Karpos, muffled by the weight of the cabin’s wooden door.

“None of your men lifted a finger,” spoke another voice, firmer than the first. Zagreus recognized it for he had tucked it into his mind with reverent intimacy, as if it were a song worth remembering despite the lack of cadence it commanded. It was Thanatos’. Love had him foolish and wanting. If he were not the prying sort, he would have thrown open the door to interrupt their discussion, but he was. Zagreus liked learning things about other people. He had never found much interest in himself, as apparently his existence was so unworthy that not even his own father breathed his name—but others? _They_ were interesting. The other always had a tapestry of history.

“... we are not warriors,” Karpos said. It would have sounded disrespectful were it not for his ashamed tone. Greeks were meant to be warriors—even Athens, for its scholarship, could open a man’s stomach like a book. To be anything less than a warrior was to be a future slave or fuel for a pyre— _if_ there were even enough men to collect the body.

“He could have died. Would it have been alright?” Thanatos’ voice cut like fine silver, carefully stretching Karpos’ intestines and reading his every sin like prophecy. 

“It would not have,” Karpos admitted, his voice softer.

“Would it have been wise to let Death’s husband die?” He was relentless in his attack, squeezing around Karpos’ heart with only his words. Zagreus could feel the chill of his presence from the other side of the door. He shivered, despite himself, suddenly grateful he was not the object of Thanatos’ ire. But despite the cold, warmth bloomed in his chest. _Husband, husband, husband_ —Zagreus whispered it into the air, watched the rise of his breath swirl until it was nothing. Thanatos had called him his husband. They were not yet married, and Zagreus was joyful he’d earned the title despite everything.

“It would not have,” Karpos continued to agree. “We… intended on getting him, if we could—”

Thanatos did not let him finish, “ _if_ you could. He _could_ have been lost.”

Zagreus moved back, and the floorboards creaked in betrayal. The two men fell silent. Zagreus knew he had been caught. 

“Dismissed,” said Thanatos.

The cabin’s door swung open, with Zagreus barely making it back onto the bed, one leg hanging off of it haphazardly. It was not a comfortable sleeping position, yet Zagreus acted as if it were luxuriant and like one arm was not crushed beneath himself from the awkward dive.

“I know you’re awake.”

Zagreus said nothing.

“The blankets aren’t even covering you, Zagreus.”

Zagreus continued to say nothing and shut his eyes with hubristic determination. 

“... idiot.” Thanatos approached, his cool hand resting on Zagreus’ back. It felt nice, the cold welcomed against the flares of pain. “How is this? Don’t lie to me and pretend to be asleep—after all I did to bandage you.”

Zagreus, knowing that the game was finished, awkwardly twisted his body into an upright position. His back screamed, and he could feel the wet of blood from re-opened wounds. Thanatos sighed deeply. “Remove your tunic.”

“Er—already? I’ve barely healed and you want to…? Well, I suppose, but—”

“Not like _that_ ,” Thanatos glared. Zagreus liked it. “Can’t you rest properly? You’re always so… _active_.” 

Zagreus lowered the half of his tunic which covered his torso, “I don’t like not moving, Than. It doesn’t feel right. Call it an itch, maybe—but I like running—being bedridden is positively _miserable_.”

Thanatos shifted behind him on the bed, his gentle hands moving over the wounds. He had damp cloth and a bowl by the bedside. Something Zagreus hadn’t noticed. Thanatos was almost devout in the way he pressed the rag over him and wiped away the blood. His hands were gentle as they closed over his wounds, attempting to seal them with his powers once more. “I can’t completely erase them,” he explained, “they’ll scar, that much is certain. I don’t know what manner of beast Magea was, but something about her composition makes healing difficult. I suspect it was the poison.”

“Poison?” Zagreus asked, “I don’t remember poison.”

“The talons of her flippers were tipped, I think.” Thanatos’ hands worked at a slow massage, partly to test the integrity of his healing, and partly to relax Zagreus. “You were feverish for a while. You’re lucky you awoke close to home. Karpos said you’ll be docking soon… Zagreus, are you listening?”

His eyes were closed, content with the feeling of Thanatos tending to him. He hadn’t thought him the sort. “I’m listening,” he replied distantly. He was not listening. He was glowing.

“You’re not.” Thanatos’ hands slid to massage his shoulders. He was seated behind him, so Zagreus could not read his expression. He wished he could have seen him when Thanatos said, “... you had me worried, Zag.”

_Zag, Zag, Zag, husband, husband, husband_ —the intimacy of those words were more intoxicating than any nectar—he could have drank it for the rest of his days, could have lived in the stupor of those words, could have built an entire palace as a shrine to those words. 

“... sorry. I didn’t think you’d come.” _I didn’t think you’d care._

Thanatos did not say anything for what felt like hours. Zagreus studied the grooves of the cabin’s wood, minded its seaglass windows and warm colors. He studied the worn red rug which had been draped over the floorboards with its faded, gold embroidery. It was not quarters befitting of a demi-god, but he liked it, nonetheless. Whilst admiring the room, he jumped when Thanatos spoke again. 

“... of course I would come.” His hands, settled firmly on Zagreus’ shoulders, drew him towards him. Zagreus’ head tipped back, and he finally saw Thanatos’ face. It was worried, open, fearful of one-thousand deaths which hadn’t happened. His palms rested on his face next, fingers framing Zagreus’ jaw. The god’s hands were cold and yet it set his skin on fire. “What did you mean,” he began, “when you asked if I would wait?”

Zagreus blushed, unable to tear his gaze away, “you’re still thinking about that?”

“For days. I want to know.” His fingers traced parts of Zagreus’ jawline, as if he were studying him, as if the movement of his jaw could reveal an unspoken truth. He was trying to read Zagreus’ body like it was its own theory, and Zagreus wanted to tell him everything about himself. He wanted to part his lips and let Thanatos drink deeply from whatever he had to offer him—whatever he wanted to know, he would tell him. 

“I wanted a reason to come back,” Zagreus admitted. The muscles of his neck began to strain, but he could not bring himself to protest. Not while Thanatos held him like this. He could endure anything if Thanatos kept holding him like this.

“The island and its people weren’t enough?”

“They’re not mine. They’ve existed before me, they will exist after me. I love them, but I know this.”

“And what about me? I’m the same, aren’t I?”

Death is the only certainty in this life.

` “But you’re my betrothed, technically. You’ll be mine in this life. I was fine with that.”

Thanatos said nothing, not because he had nothing to say, but because he had never learned to say what he wanted before.

He let Zagreus’ face go, and he missed the touch. Or, he would have, had Thanatos not turned him around to pin him to the cot. The god loomed over him, and Zagreus went pliant despite himself. The last part he needed to gather, the heart, sat squarely in his chest. He felt the weight of it, felt the weight of Thanatos, and started to feel the intermingling of the two. Thanatos was becoming part of his heart. 

“This is a bit… compromising, isn’t it?” Zagreus asked it lamely, his chest rising. He liked to think himself clever, but there was no quip at his disposal, no playful barb to wave about. He was at Thanatos’ mercy. All mortals were, but this was something else, something more dangerous than death, it was love, and love could make a pervert of a pious man if it so chose to. 

Thanatos studied him carefully and pressed closer. “I would have waited.” It was his answer. “I… I should have told you. That’s my fault. I’m sorry, Zag.” He couldn’t look at him.

Thanatos was a god and proud, of course Zagreus would not be allowed to see the full extent of his grief. “When I saw you in the water… I panicked. I wanted… I wanted to kill the crew. I didn’t, but I was so...”

_I’ve never been so angry before, I didn’t understand it._ Zagreus could hear it in Thanatos’ voice—he did not need to say it plainly. The god’s nature was one of stillness, like a silenced sea which knew no strife nor storm. Thanatos could surely understand these things conceptually, but he had never experienced them. The other gods liked their anger—wore it like armor, but that was never Thanatos—he was only someone trying to do his job in the station given to him. Such anger had never been turned onto humans before. The crew lived, Zagreus could hear their steps above, but Zagreus wondered what would have become of them if Thanatos were more of an Apollo, a Poseidon, an Athena, an Aphrodite. 

He squeezed Thanatos into his embrace. He loved him _because_ he wasn’t.

“I’m alive,” Zagreus said. It was enough.

“I know.”

Thanatos raised himself, and looked thoughtful. He had not wept, Zagreus hadn’t expected him to, but the cloud of grief which had passed over him had cleared. Zagreus was mortal, ultimately, but it did no good to mourn men before they even died. The trick of life was to value it as it happened; to mourn its end before it was realized was utter foolishness. If people spent all their lives grieving things before their conclusion, there would be no love for the day, as it was always fated to end. Humans were destined to be fleeting, but it was their brilliance which was their virtue, and to see them as finite was to diminish their meaning—the worth of a life was not so easily eclipsed by its inevitable death—and it should not have been.

There was no sense in gathering the flowers for a man’s funeral before it had even come to pass. There was no sense in playing widow when the spouse still lived, but this is how gods see things: quickly, fleetingly—human life like fireworks at the end of the night.

. . . 

The bath which followed made the battle against Magea feel tame in its ways. Warm water sluiced over Zagreus’ wounds, irritating them with a burning purification. Were Thanatos not bigger than him and divine, Zagreus would have wrestled his way out of the bath. His hands had been braced at the marble’s edge, like he was going to haul himself up like a cat and hiss at Thanatos’ intervention. Though Zagreus behaved himself, as marriage was compromise and compromise was a bitter fruit he was learning to swallow.

Thanatos’ expert hands which had soothed the dead were massaging Zagreus’ shoulders. The prince winced, though found the chill of them to be comforting against the water’s heat.

“Are you in pain?”

“It’s fine,” muttered Zagreus, “I think the heat’s finally working; my muscles are relaxing, at least.” _Even if this burns like fucking Asphodel._

“Good.” Thanatos exhaled in relief. He did not need to breathe.

“Will you be joining me?” Zagreus asked it cheekily, not expecting to be dignified with an answer. He liked pressing himself against Thanatos’ walls, to see if any would give. They usually did not.

“Not exactly.” Thanatos gathered a bar of oil soap into his hand. “But I will… help you wash.”

“Huh? Really?” Zagreus craned his head back to study him, the surprise naked on his face.

“It hurts to move, I can tell.” 

_Well_ , thought Zagreus, _I should like to see you face off against a sea monster and plunge into icy water, then tell me how the experience was_. His back was scarring quickly. That was its own relief, at least, though stiff joints were always reluctant to unwind, as knots were a warrior’s state. He jumped again when the length of Thanatos’ fingers spirited across his spine.

“Did that hurt?” Thanatos stilled like death.

“No! No, you merely… caught me by surprise. Continue. It’s not everyday someone gets bathed by a god, right?” Though most bards would have preferred it from Aphrodite, surely.

Thanatos exhaled like he needed breath (gathering it just for half-hearted, unpracticed laughter punctuated by exasperation). “You seem better. Even better than aboard the ship.”

“The fresh air helps,” Zagreus replied, “as well as the steady ground. Have you ever been aboard a ship, Than?”

“Not in the way you have.” Long fingers combed through the prince’s hair, soaping carefully. “You still smell like the sea.”

“Is it putrid?”

“.... not on you.”

Zagreus felt a rush of heat surge throughout him—delight (he would have let Thanatos lick the sea salt from his skin, if he asked).

“Well, if you’d like to get closer to smell it, then we could always—”

A pitcher of water was dumped onto Zagreus’ head before he could finish. “ _Cold, cold, cold!_ ” Zagreus shook himself like a hound. “How long did you keep that water there?! It was _freezing!_ ”

“My hand slipped,” Thanatos replied, the corners of his lips twitching.

“They did _not!_ You had _both_ of your hands on it!” Zagreus laughed, parting his hair so he could properly look at him. “You’ve _drenched_ me.”

“That’s how baths work, Zag.”

“Why _you—_ ”

Zagreus did the only thing that made sense beneath the light of Thanatos’ smile: he grabbed him and kissed him with reckless, human impulse. He expected reprimands, dissent, something bureaucratically boring and swearing by the proper way of things. Frigid fingers curled around Zagreus’ warm wrists. Thanatos was staying.

The kiss was slow, gentle. It was the kiss wives gave half-dead husbands with blood pouring like wine. It was the kiss the desperate gave—open and wanting. They kissed like Zagreus would never breathe again, like this was finite (because it was, because all things are finite with the living. They never stand where they are again—they are infinite in legacy only and so few men can carve that monument).

Zagreus broke their kiss first, “let go of my wrists,” he spoke softly, heated breath catching in the space between them (that was prayer, that was love; romance is a series of heated wantings).

“Wh... why?”

“I can’t pull you closer if I don’t have both of my hands.” _Isn’t it obvious that I love you?_

“You’re hurt—”

“We can be quick about it.”

Thanatos let his wrists go with a philosopher’s face. The god was always thinking, analyzing, trying to see which pieces fit together into a picture that made the most sense. Zagreus did not want to give him the space to think, to doubt, to question, if it feels right then it must be done—that was how he quantified the world around himself.

Zagreus pulled Thanatos onto his lap before he could hear a refusal, but this was the truth of the matter: Thanatos _let_ himself be pulled. A god cannot be compelled to do what they do not want to do. Enough is there and known.

“Is this comfortable?” Zagreus asked. Thanatos locked his thighs around the prince’s waist. He was keeping him there. This was possession, this was confirmation and affirmation. Mutual desire is a mirror, even when one forgets the weight of their tongue.

“This is...”

“Not bad, right?” Zagreus grinned up at him, “though you’re rather underdressed for a bath…”

“You’re pushing your luck, Zagreus.” _Keep pushing._

“You haven’t killed me yet.”

A heavy sigh wracked throughout Thanatos’ body, “they would have questions if I did.” _I could never._

“It’s not that.” _You love me._

“... it’s not.” Thanatos looked resigned. _Enough to disembowel myself._

Zagreus worked on unclasping the finer points of Thanatos’ garments. He was quick and eager, Thanatos interrupting him: “we’re not going all the way. Not when you’re injured.”

“How considerate,” Zagreus replied with a hint of bitterness. It was more merciful that way, he knew it, but that did not mean he particularly liked it. 

Thanatos was largely dressed, save for the fact his pants and undergarments had been discarded into the water (Zagreus would be close to death for this later). “We could do it like this…” Zagreus stroked Thanatos’ length, pressing his arousal against his own, rocking his hips up in a slow grind. “It won’t be a strain to either of us this way.” His gaze flicked upwards. Thanatos was blushing. Zagreus hadn’t thought him capable of it. “Are you following?”

Thanatos flushed a deeper shade of gray like fine moonstone. He brought his hand to cover part of his face as if the body did not betray the heart. “yes… I am…”

Zagreus took them both into his grip, stroking them slowly. When he squeezed, he watched Thanatos jolt—electrified and living. Zagreus felt warm again, though not from the heat’s discomfort. There was an odd dissonance between the burning of his thighs and the natural chill of Thanatos’ body. Zagreus felt every single nerve of his singe and sing. Thanatos was cold until his cock—warm like his mouth (all things human-shaped come from fire, Prometheus understood this best).

“Move closer,” Zagreus requested, voice soft like adoration, firm like dedication. 

When Thanatos did, he looped his arm around the back of his neck, drawing him down into a kiss. It was not with the same gentleness as before. It was filthy and open-mouthed, punctuated by unsteady breaths. This was enough of a distraction for Zagreus, who pumped his hand harder and faster over their dicks. _Finally_ Thanatos was moving, lost in the sensation, mouth agape and chasing his own pleasure. He had forgotten the reservations of his station. Like many gods around him, Thanatos was learning that humans were the world’s greatest delicacy. 

“ _Zag_ —”

“There, there,” cooed the prince, lips tracing his jaw.

Thanatos did not submit entirely, capturing Zagreus’ lips and forcing his tongue into his mouth. It rubbed against the roof of it as if it were going to move in, inhabit it permanently, claim and redecorate. Zagreus moaned loudly, relieved the baths were relatively isolated, as no servant deserved to hear their prince extolling carnal prayer. 

“Wait...—” Zagreus tried to move away to catch his breath. Thanatos grabbed his jaw firmly, hips colliding with Zagreus’ as he moved in to claim another kiss. His nails dug into Zagreus’ skin as he gripped him. This would serve as proof of what they were doing. The indents of Thanatos’ nails fit like five wedding bands. 

The prince tried to bring himself to a focus, to stroke them both to completion. Thanatos’ other hand, larger and smoother than his, joined over Zagreus’. They kissed as they spilled over each other’s fingers, the call of the other’s name entirely muffled. This was its own language, and they knew the intent of their lover, so it was enough. 

Neither of them moved, stuck in a stasis where no other things existed instead of the other. If either of them moved, the spell would be broken. They would be prince and god again—betrothed, surely, but separate. Love kept them in that water. Love was Thanatos threading their fingers together like a ceremony and love was what pushed Zagreus’ face into the space between Thanatos’ shoulder and neck like he could live there for the rest of his life.

. . .

The _epaulia_ of their marriage had gone smoothly. Well, as smoothly as a proper wedding between a god and a prince could have gone with other gods and humans in attendance in a strange show of solidarity. Nyx had squeezed Zagreus’ shoulder with a warm smile, relieved that the union had worked. She must have known it, as the stars were the audience to all things, though she had said nothing of it. Thanatos had been cordial and careful with her. She had taken him into her arms, regardless. The greatest sorrow of the parent is losing the child in marriage. It is a unique stab which eviscerates the tender heart with every ceremony, with joy and melancholy pouring from each laceration. She, with a quiet dignity, gave them the space to sort their wedding gifts.

Hades had not been in attendance. Not that anyone had expected him to be. Not when sunbeams were poison-tipped and grass felt like razor blades beneath bare feet. He gave a gift, at least, though that was all that could be said of him, and none had the bravery to say the sulfuric sovereign’s name.

In Zagreus’ palace, things were peaceful. 

“I suppose the custom doesn’t consider men very often,” Zagreus said, assessing the gifts that had been brought. He held up a phallic charm (courtesy of Dionysus), “this would be interesting on a shelf, regardless.”

“Zagreus, put that down.” Thanatos sighed.

“Oh?” Zagreus chuckled, “you don’t like the bounty of tiny pensises we’ve been given? Whyever not?”

The other’s interests were more with a vase, “you can decide what to keep. I can’t live with you.” A bittersweet truth.

“But you can visit,” Zagreus retorted, “and you can come see our _wonderful_ collection of these… _things._ ” He dutifully put the phallic charm down, wanting no more to do with it than Thanatos did. The next object of his interest was a shawl made of liquid dark, star-studded and fine with unborn galaxies swirling in its depths. The material was luxuriant and luminous. Nyx had always had an eye for the beautiful, even if House Hades was known for its bleakness. The shawl did not suit him, though he loved it all the same, pressing its smoothness to his cheek. It was a comfort, as he’d always had very little of Nyx save for his memory of her. 

Zagreus’ attention soon fled to the most promising gift, the one with the most utility: a Chthonic lance. Legend had it that Hades had wielded it against his own father. Zagreus held it, bouncing it in his hands, feeling the weight of it. He swung (carefully)—once, twice, thrice! He struck the air like Magea’s eye! It was well-balanced and true. He placed the butt of it onto the ground, surveying its blades. He would have to modify it. Even if it had its uses, Zagreus was not certain if he wanted it to be the spitting image of his father’s legacy. 

“I suppose…” Thanatos interrupted his thoughts, having finally found his reply in uncertain words.

“You _will_ visit, I hope.”

“I will,” he said it with more determination. “I can’t leave you unattended for too long—you like getting yourself hurt.”

“You phrase it like you don’t enjoy seeing me. _I_ like seeing you.”

Thanatos busied himself with inspecting the jewelry. Zagreus thought he hadn’t cared for it until he tucked a gold and ruby pendant into his pocket. 

“You like that?”

“It reminds me of someone. That’s all.” He quickly changed the subject, “I should be going. I can’t imagine how the work has piled up because of the wedding.”

“I thought Hypnos was going to help you with it?”

“Doubtful,” muttered Thanatos. Zagreus had never met Hypnos, though from how Thanatos spoke of him, he could hazard a guess that Hypnos did not retain the same, steadfast dedication towards his work that his brother did. It was strange to think them related in any capacity. 

“Of course, of course.” Zagreus approached Thanatos. He hesitated in the space between them before kissing him properly. This was an act that would become more common, though they were both still practicing it. Intimacy was an erratic thing and minds tended to overthink the performance of it. Thanatos returned the kiss, hand settling over Zagreus’. Affirmation. Tenderness. One-hundred I love yous in a touch alone.

“I’ll be back.” A proper promise. Another wedding vow.

In a flash of green, he was gone, and Zagreus tried not to miss him already.

When he returned to the table with its glittering gifts, he felt tired. Homes were best when the married couple were together, but Thanatos staying was an impossibility. Would Thanatos return promptly? Or would five minutes for the god be five years for Zagreus? The thought chilled him, and if he dwelled on it, he knew that the earth would swallow him with that terror. So he absolved not to think of it. Thanatos would return. That was its own value even if he did not know when.

Zagreus surveyed the presents, trying to decide which were worth keeping and which were about to make a quick journey to the rubbish pile. 

“Strange…” muttered Zagreus, fingers delicately raising a crimson blossom with a glowing, gold center. He turned it in the light, studying the richness of its reds and its center like a fine coin. “I don’t remember anyone at the party giving me _this._ ”

And yet, he could not bring himself to cast it aside, so he tucked it into his tunic instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOO! it's done! i said i'd have this out a week earlier but i wasn't satisfied with this chapter and have actually struggled w writing bc of 2020 being a shitshow. I'd like to give a big thanks to everyone for their support of this fic and the kind comments I've received. I can only hope this is a satisfactory ending!
> 
> i wrote this fic when the game was still in early access so it's crazy to see how much the fandom has grown!
> 
> i have no idea if i'll be writing more hades fic? i tend to write fic as inspiration strikes me and this fic itself was a bit of an undertaking for me so i might take a breather. idk maybe i'll write thanzag again one day.... they hit me in my uwus.
> 
> but !! that's everything tysm for reading and for leaving feedback. they always make me smile and brighten my day and encourage me to keep writing!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my partner for cursing my dick with this fucking game and special thanks to Kat who helped me work out the Greek for Zagreus' epithet.  
> This story will have porn........... eventually................................................. I'm a pining bitch but I want to keep this thing condensed into only three chapters with all of them being around this length. It'll mainly be centered in Zagreus' POV but if I don't convey Thanatos' eventual pining too then I've failed the people.  
> Also I tried to keep some ancient Greek culture and mythos in all of this with veiled references but I also took some liberties please don't come for me.  
> Finally, no betas we die like men.


End file.
